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The June sun beats down mercilessly on the Walker Elite Sport Club, the tennis club Leah Walker founded after retiring from a brilliant career at thirty-five.

Located on the outskirts of Charleston, the club sprawls across extensive grounds surrounded by century-old oak trees and meticulously maintained gardens.

Inside, a spacious lobby with high ceilings and wooden floors exudes exclusivity. A black marble counter serves as reception, where the staff, always impeccable and led by her mothers, attends to members with discretion. On one wall, a large display case showcases Leah's trophies and career mementos, along with photographs documenting her journey through the world's most prestigious tournaments.

She now teaches anyone who wants to learn regardless of their level, because Leah believes what's important about tennis, like all sports, is that you enjoy it. For this purpose, the club features eight high-end tennis courts: five clay and three hard surface, all illuminated for night games.

It also has two indoor courts with climate control technology and cushioned floors for training regardless of weather. A training zone with ball machines and video analysis helps players perfect their technique. Plus a spa where members can relax after matches or lessons. In short, the club has everything any tennis enthusiast could desire, and Leah loves continuing to dedicate her life to what she enjoys most.

And there she stands, finishing one of those lessons, the last one of the afternoon. Across the net from her is Alison Young, a fourteen-year-old girl whose parents enrolled her in the club to keep her occupied after school, who's turning out to be a prodigy and potential rising star. The girl started purely for fun and now only wishes for the moment she can compete.

In Charleston, South Carolina, the humidity this time of year is unbearable. Leah loves living here, but the summer months drag on endlessly. Sweat trickles down her back, soaks the base of her ponytail, and plasters her shirt to her skin, making her feel uncomfortable. Her racquet grip is damp and though she constantly dries it with a towel, it always returns to its sticky state. But none of that matters. The training session isn't over yet, and she focuses solely on Alison's movements.

"Come on, Alison. Two more," she commands with an authoritative voice.

Leah tosses the ball above her head and hits it with a crisp, powerful serve that makes her racquet cut through the air with a hum.

Alison moves sluggishly. Her sneakers squeak on the scorching court as she chases the ball until she reaches it, but the return shot is weak and lackluster, listless. The ball doesn't even clear the net, and Leah twists her mouth into a grimace.

"What was that, Alison? Use your legs. It's not enough to stretch your arm like the racquet is a fishing net."

Alison lets out an exasperated huff and straightens up, panting. She's as red as a traffic light, with sweat dripping from her chin and temples. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand and looks at Leah with a pleading expression.

"I'm dying here," she suddenly says. "It's hellishly hot, Leah. We've been at it for almost two hours, couldn't we call it a day?"

"We have five minutes left," Leah says, unfazed. "Five minutes in which you can make one last effort and use them, or you can waste them. Your choice."

Alison sighs, but positions herself again because her goal is to be like the woman standing before her. Leah sends another ball, this time shorter. The young girl lunges forward and, though she gets there in time, hits a lob that sails over Leah's head and lands deep in the court.

"Knees bent, Alison! Don't just bend over, move your body into it!" Leah shakes her head as she watches, surprised by Alison's continuous mistakes. "If you don't fix that, a good opponent will make you run until your legs shake. And in a real match, you can't call time-out because you're hot."

Alison clicks her tongue and mutters something unintelligible.

"Excuse me?" Leah asks, lowering her racquet with an amused expression.

The young girl sighs with frustration, and Leah wipes her forehead as she approaches the net.

"I'm sorry," Alison apologizes, "I just can't take anymore."

"Okay," Leah concedes, aware that sometimes she's very intense, but knowing that if Alison wants to go far, she must be consistent. "I'll let it slide today because this sun seems determined to finish us off, but you know that in a match, you can't stop because you're tired or feeling weak. Here, drink some water," she says, handing her a bottle.

Alison pours it over herself, and Leah lets out a small laugh. The young girl's expression changes, as if suddenly resurrected, and she starts bouncing on her feet.

"I can keep going, if you want, ten more minutes the five I lost plus five extra."

Leah blinks in bewilderment as she watches her retreat to the back of the court as if someone wound her up. She empties another bottle of water over herself, but the liquid doesn't have the same effect on her as it did on her student, reviving her energy. She's exhausted; the heat is killing her. Then she reminds herself with a smile spreading across her face as she positions herself on her side of the court that she isn't fourteen like Alison—she's thirty-eight, and doesn't have energy to spare like the girl does.

"You did really well," Leah says when the class finally ends. "See you Tuesday."

She fans her shirt in a desperate attempt to get air flowing over her body as the young girl walks away and Mia Clark approaches, a twenty-five-year-old club employee whom Leah loves like a little sister.

"You look tired," Mia says as she starts collecting the balls scattered across the court.

"I'm wishing for death right now," Leah says, sitting on the bench for a few seconds while packing her racquets in her bag.

"You should build more indoor courts. Those two are always occupied, and training in this heat isn't good," Mia observes while continuing her work.

Leah stretches her toned, sun-bronzed legs while resting her hands on the edge of the bench.

"Yes, you're right. I'll talk to my mothers about handling it. We could build two more in that area, behind the storage shed," the tennis player says, though deep down, she likes these training sessions and knows they're important. In an open tournament, the sun shows no mercy, and you need to train for that too. "Have you talked to Aaron?" she changes the subject, asking about Mia's little brother.

Mia empties the tube full of balls into the cart and continues collecting.

"Last night, to tell him I'll pick him up directly from school this Friday. I spoke with his foster mother and she was fine with it," she says, pressing her lips together in a grimace.

"That's great, Mia," Leah says.

"Yeah," Mia smiles at her. "You should go shower. It's getting late, and if we don't make it on time, Natalie will kill us."

Leah checks the time on her watch and jumps up.

"Damn," she mutters nervously. "I didn't realize it was so late."

Mia laughs and approaches her.

"Go. I'll finish collecting all this. I'll wait for you in the car."

Leah dashes toward the shower while calculating. She knows they have time to get to the restaurant where they're meeting her mothers. It's one of their birthdays, Natalie's, the older of the two. She's turning sixty-five, and her other mother wanted to celebrate at the restaurant where they always go as a family for any important event.

The family has always been the three of them—Anne, Natalie, and Leah, whom they adopted when she was six—until four years ago when she met Mia under somewhat complicated circumstances. Leah not only gave her a job but grew fond of her until she practically became her protégée, and her mothers have welcomed her as another member of the family.

They arrive at the restaurant just in time to find the two women at the door. Leah hugs them both at once, congratulates her mother despite having done so already at the club this morning after stopping by their office to say hello, where they both work handling management after insisting to Leah that it was better they do it than someone unfamiliar. The tennis player would have preferred her mothers to enjoy a relaxed retirement that they can afford, but they say they'd get bored and prefer to be there, close to her.

"Shall we go in?" Anne asks, putting an arm around Mia's shoulders.

Leah loves this restaurant, located in a historic Victorian-style house with a large terrace and a cozy porch that combines Southern tradition with a modern touch.

Upon entering, the exposed wooden beams and brick walls create a warm, sophisticated atmosphere that makes them feel at home. The hanging lamps emit a soft light, perfect for the family evening they intend to enjoy.

From her seat by a window, Leah can see the cobblestone street illuminated by antique lanterns, with the night breeze gently rustling the oak leaves a breeze she would have appreciated having while training under that merciless sun this afternoon.

"Do you know what you're going to order?" Anne asks, looking at the menu through her thick-framed glasses.

"Leah needs some energy. Alison drained her dry," Mia jokes, eliciting hearty laughter from all the women.